


Mycroft Holmes, Unravelled

by AnnaLiz_Holmes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Big Brother Mycroft, Bullying, Depression, Gen, Kid Sherlock, Protective Mycroft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-06
Updated: 2014-03-08
Packaged: 2018-01-14 17:16:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1274605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaLiz_Holmes/pseuds/AnnaLiz_Holmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft Holmes is an amazing big brother. Linking little things I've noticed in the series to the background of the Holmes'. This fic is also on ff.net.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Mycroft Holmes sat on his bed, surrounded by textbooks, when he is called to the dining room. The suspicious request, It's not even six yet..., becomes clear when he sees his mother's tearstained cheeks, his father's hands trembling, ignoring his little brother as he tips acid over the dining table for the second time that week. Mycroft Holmes was nine and doted on his little brother, Sherlock, spending the majority of the time he wasn't reading or studying playing deductions to keep his "funny little mind" out of trouble. However, during this time he had not been ignorant to the hushed conversations that took place when his parents thought he couldn't hear. The names of various doctors being mentioned, the hastily answered phone calls and the strangers walking through school in the direction of his brother's classroom. He knew something was going on, and was hardly surprised when five year old Sherlock was diagnosed as having Asperger's Syndrome. He'd been harbouring the idea himself for some time, after coming across the condition during a casual flick-through of the DSM. It didn't come as a surprise to him, although his parents took it particularly hard. Mummy wept into her hands, trying to hide her tears from her oldest son, despite the fact they all knew it was a pointless exercise. Father handled it slightly better, although his shaking hands and wobbly smile betrayed him. After being told the news, he had no words to express how he felt - "I told you so" didn't appear to be quite appropriate. So Mycroft collected Sherlock and dragged him away from his chemicals, kicking and screaming, in order to give his parents some peace, and who ever bothered to a chance to clean up the mess.

He had always known he was different from the other children in his school; the work that took them hours of pondering he could do in his sleep. It didn't particularly endear him to his classmates, who took it upon themselves to torture him incessantly; he was a prime target, considering the fact that his little brother, who had just started school, was already kicking up such a fuss. Less than twenty minutes into Sherlock's first day at the school, he caused a commotion in the corridor and was dragged into his older brother's classroom by the scruff of his neck, his face red with anger as he kicked and swore furiously at the teachers who restrained him. Mycroft was called out, in front of the entire class, to deal with the writhing ball of dark curls and directed to "SORT IT OUT" as his parents had instructed the school he would.   
"Sherlock, brother, calm down..." Mycroft soothed, sitting on the floor in the headmaster's office, forcibly holding the little boy, who was spitting with rage, on his lap and rocking him, humming soothingly like he had so often been required to do at home.   
"Shhh... Please Sherlock..."   
"They told me I was stupid Mycroft!" Sherlock wailed, his reedy voice shrill as he gave in and buried himself face first into Mycroft's chest, using his blazer to hide from the outside world that abused him.  
"The teachers... They told me I was arrogant and malicious and spoilt, and that I was just trying to cover up the fact that I am immensely stupid and will never be like you!" This was just the first time that Mycroft felt the ice cold rage course through his veins, turning his blood to ice and pale blue eyes to flint. He shouted at the teachers, spat every obscene criticism under the sun at them. He was suspended that day for swearing so violently at the teachers. Mummy and Father destroyed him when he got home, laying into him in a way that only they could, making him feel shame in the way that only they could. Never mind the fact that he had held his baby brother in his arms, cradling him and protecting him that they never had. It was just what was expected of their oldest son. It was the last time that Mycroft ever gave any external sign of the anger and pain that slowly began to engulf him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to you lovely people who've read this - I love you all :D This chapter is actually a combination of chapters 2 and 3 that I wrote for ff.net, so I hope it flows ok and that you enjoy! 
> 
> BTW, I'm not exactly sure whether the end of this could be triggering..? So please exercise reasonable caution... Lots of love x

"Mycroft...?" Sherlock's voice was soft, almost unnaturally gentle as he entered his brother's room. A year and thirteen suspensions later, each preceded by Mycroft being called out of his classes innumerable times, Sherlock had learned that the only person he could turn to in life now was his older brother. Mycroft was the only one who was always there to protect him, to save him from the consequences of his own actions. If it wasn't for Mycroft Sherlock would have been expelled during his first week; it was quickly learned that Mummy and Father despised the fact that their youngest child was "such a bother", the shock and distress they had displayed following Sherlock's diagnosis long gone. They now simply couldn't be bothered to deal with him, and so often left them alone with only the supervision of the elderly butler, while they disappeared abroad - Mycroft suspected that they were line dancing again. As a result, the task of raising Sherlock was mostly left to him.  
"Yes Sherlock?" Mycroft turned from his books to look up at his brother, brushing his white blonde hair back from his eyes and reaching for the stop button on the radio. Mycroft's guilty pleasure was show-tunes; how he loved them, the escapism from the hell of his day to day existence. He loved his brother dearly, but the stress of trying to control him was beginning to tell. Mycroft felt more like a man of fifty than a young boy of nine sometimes, resentment of his parents blossoming along with his love for Sherlock. 

The force of Sherlock's slight frame barrelling into his side came as quite a shock, knocking him off his chair and onto the floor with a loud thump. The fall, although it was only small, knocked the breath out of him and he lay on the floor gasping slightly for breath as Sherlock buried himself in his chest, tears soaking through the thin fabric of his shirt. Mycroft's arms instinctively wrapped around the small bundle, holding him close as the tears came.   
"I love you, Mycroft..." Sherlock whispered, snuggling as close as he physically could to his brother's frame; despite his young age, Mycroft was already growing tall, his body made entirely of the lean muscle he earned wrestling to keep Sherlock calm.   
"I love you too Sherlock." He murmured into the little boy's ear, tenderly stroking black curls wet with tears back from his brother's narrow face, stroking over his already prominent cheek bones. Although his little brother never admitted it, but he craved the physical attention he had received before his diagnosis; before their parents started becoming more and more distant, spending more and more time away from them. Neither of the brothers would admit just how much they needed each other to keep going. But, Mycroft sighed to himself, lifting Sherlock and laying down on his bed beside him, I wouldn't trade these moments for the world...

However, the night's relative peace was short lived. Things went from bad to worse with Sherlock, as he somehow managed to get hold of a box of matches, and had gone about setting everything in sight on fire in order to compare the speeds at which they burned. He had gone too far, and Mycroft was the one who had to pick up the pieces, suspecting that his 'experiment' was not the only thing that had turned Sherlock towards his new-found destructive ways. Sat in the classroom, Mycroft held his brother by the arms and chastised him, making sure to explain exactly why the teachers thought his seemingly innocent experiment was wrong. The thing that no-one seemed to pick up on about his brother was that, as a result of his condition, and partially just as a result of his nature, he did not understand the feelings of others. They shouted at him and punished him, but it only made Sherlock in turns distressed and more curious than ever. Sitting in the stuffy room, which by now he knew so well, Mycroft had had no time to acknowledge the burning of his scalp. The terrible itching had been developing for a few days now, and no amount of tea tree oil or any sort of soothing gel he applied could stop it. His hair was his one physical feature which Mycroft prided himself on; white blond, like Uncle Matthew's, and shoulder length with a very slight wave. He was meticulous in his care for it, with this detail being quickly noted by his baby brother, who had just turned six and was becoming more impossible by the day. Mother and father never turned up at the school. Not that anyone expected them to anymore.

 

The itching and burning of his scalp did not cease as Mycroft made his way home with Sherlock that afternoon, after spending the day holding his brother's hand as they were lectured by various 'responsible adults'. Bitterness hung in the air and made them both shiver, fingertips turning white. The joys of the parents being away... He rubbed Sherlock's bony fingers between his, eliciting a sigh from the skinny boy. Mental note to get him to eat more - needs more padding against the cold.   
"Come on baby brother, let's get in and get you warmed up..."

Mycroft didn't have time to even think about himself until he got into bed, after settling Sherlock down with his stuffed dog tucked securely into his side. Surprisingly, he had fallen asleep relatively quicky - an enormous relief for an exhausted Mycroft. Picking up his textbook for a bit of relaxation before he went to sleep, he realised that the itching that he had felt all over his head had not gone away. Gingerly lifting a hand, he stroked over the area on the left hand side of his head, brushing his ear as the tenderness in the area became more pronounced under the pressure of gently probing fingers. Strange... Mycroft was rigid in his hair care regime, with it being the only indulgence he had come to allow himself since Sherlock had started school and he had pretty much become primary caregiver. He knew that the itch couldn't be caused by a dry scalp, he had picked up on how to eliminate that from mummy, and it couldn't be...Mycroft suppressed a shudder at the idea of bugs crawling over his head, digging their fangs into him. It could NOT be that. Taking a deep breath, he rubbed slightly, drawing his finger tips together and pulling them away from his head, staring in shock at the silky strand that he held. Twisting it around his fingers, he took a moment to examine it curiously; the strand was gently curled and exceptionally fine. It was beautiful, in a way. Mycroft's thoughts led him to Uncle Matthew, whom he loved a great deal, though obviously no-one would ever find out about that. The man was bumbling, exactly the opposite of his nephews, but he loved them, took the time to listen to what they had to say. Mycroft fondly remembered Sherlock swelling with joy when Uncle Matthew told him he was proud of his achievements...

"I'm so proud of you!" The blonde man stretched up from his position, kneeling on the hard concrete of the garage floor, and swung his tiny nephew around. Sherlock squealed in joy, wrapping his arms around his neck and squeezing him in the tightest hug he could manage. At the age of 4, Sherlock had started taking an interest in animals and their anatomy and genuinely enjoyed dissecting various creatures; not in the cruel, ruthless way in which most children enjoy it, but with genuine curiosity. Mycroft had told one of the biology teachers about Sherlock in school, a kindly woman, the only person who really understood and made an effort to encourage the eldest Holmes' brother, and she quickly set about collecting things for him.  
"You boys are something special Mycroft." She had told him, looking down with genuine fondness in her eyes.   
"We can't have that talent going to waste now, can we?" Sherlock had dissected a frog and correctly labelled all of the internal organs; the task which he had been given. It was the first time Mycroft had witnessed a member of their family showing an interest, and even more so telling his brother he was proud of him, and it had reduced him to tears, silently streaming down his beaming seven year face.

Similar tears fought their way to the surface as he looked at the hair between his fingers; emotions he had fought for so long to contain, the waves of depression he had sought to hide, flowing over him with a sudden intensity that, surprisingly, didn't frighten him. He relished the beauty of his blonde locks, Uncle Matthew would be proud of him. Reaching up again, Mycroft carefully plucked another strand from his head, this time removing the root with it. Running his finger down the strand lovingly, he realised that the root could be removed - rolled around between his finger tips like a tiny ball and discarded, leaving behind another beautiful hair. As he caressed the perfect blond strands, Mycroft realised that the intensity of the itch had decreased somewhat in that area, but had started up in the centre of his head. All night he sat up, sobbing over his textbook and removing strand after strand in an attempt to make the itching stop.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kind of a filler chapter - hope it doesn't suck too much :) x

"Mike!" The curling tendrils of morning sunlight stung Mycroft's eyes as he was startled violently awake, blinking rapidly before he faced his mother who stood imposingly in the doorway.  
"Mummy, I didn't expect..." His words were cut off by a flurry of movement, as she darted across the room and lightly pressed a cool, trembling hand to the side of his head. She choked slightly, powerful emotion radiating from her in waves. What on earth...  
"Ow, mummy that hurts!" His own squeal of pain took Mycroft by surprise, pulling away from her unusual display towards him. Looking at her, she was brown as a nut and had clearly lost six pounds while they'd been away; that would be the line dancing... Running her fingers over his head once again, more gently, she burst into tears. Mycroft shuffled away, uncomfortable with the sudden turn of events, when Sherlock bounded into his room and flung himself onto the bed, past his mother and straight into his big brother's arms.  
"Good morning Mycroft!" Sherlock giggled, resting against his chest and letting out a sigh. Despite his enthusiastic entrance, the look in his little brother's eyes told a thousand words; he had heard the sobs last night, even if he had been asleep when Mycroft left the room. He could feel his brother's pain, even if their own mother couldn't. I should be protecting you from this, keeping life normal for you... Brushing Sherlock's dark curls back from his face and kissing his forehead, he looked up to see mummy stooped down, picking something up from the floor.  
"Mummy what are you doing, there's nothing..." The words died in mid-air as she straightened up, shaking, and held out a bloodied blonde fistful of hair towards him. Her eyes were searching his, although she did not have the ability to spot what she was looking for. The itch was becoming overwhelming once again, and he raised his hand to scratch at it, only to feel raw skin beneath his fingers. Oh god...  
"Mike... Baby, what is this..?" She stared unnervingly at him, not moving from her position stood beside the bed, while Sherlock curled up tighter in his arms, his warm breath against Mycroft's chest strangely comforting to the older boy. How can I even explain this...  
"I have an itch...?" He offered, him bright blue eyes fixed on the clump in her hand as he tightened his jaw, desperately resisting the urge to reach out and take it from her, to touch it.

She left the room not long after, after her pleadings for an explanation had been met with silence and a blank eyed stare. How could he provide an answer for her if he didn't really know himself? All I know is that it eases the itch... She had taken his hair with her as she hurried out and the boys heard her calling out to their father on the stairs, voice shrill with unshed tears. Mycroft knew that her caring wouldn't last for long, he would me made a fuss of for a few days, as they had done with Sherlock, and then he would be completely alone. I doubt they'll be home more than a week... God, he still felt so tired and his head itched so much. Why won't it just stop?! Sherlock had welded himself into his brother's body and had fallen asleep again; comforted by the soft breathing and warm comfort he took from his baby brother, Mycroft allowed himself to close his eyes, though he didn't sleep; his mind whirled on in overdrive. They were going to miss school... But why should I care? Their parents obviously didn't. He couldn't deal with the sensation of being battered around by angry teachers today, and something in his mind told him the teachers would also appreciate the break. He would take Sherlock out for a run later maybe, they'd go to the park and play deductions with the people passing by... That will keep him stimulated for a bit, probably teach him more than school too... Lately, Mycroft had come to despise school more than he ever had before. His classmates were becoming more and more obvious in their hatred of him; they screamed at him and laughed at him, sometimes they even hit and pushed him, which they'd never done before. He was a joke, they found it hysterical that he had to deal with his "naughty boy" brother, no-one, not even the teachers bother to listen when he corrects them - "He's Autistic, not naughty!" - and he sees that glances he gets from them in the corridor. The judgment in their eyes. He is a failure, and no amount of intelligence will ever convince them otherwise. Mycroft has no-one to turn to. The only person he has in the world is his little brother. He twisted a lock of hair around his fingers and tugged at it, relishing with satisfaction the slight tearing sound is it came away from his head. The pain felt good, it eased the itching, pushed aside the buzzing of his young brain. His mind was blank for the first time, and it was blissful.


End file.
